


Strange Spots I thru V

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-07-15
Updated: 2000-07-15
Packaged: 2018-11-20 09:25:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11332953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: The idea came to me after reading an interview with Braidwood (Frohike).





	Strange Spots I thru V

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Night Terrors by La Tigre

Night Terrors  
by La Tigre  
Archived 03/29/00

%#%#%#%#%#%#%#%#%#%#%#%#%%#%#%#%#%#%#%#  
Night Terrors  
by La Tigre   
Web page: http://personales.com/costarica/cartago/jaguar  
Rating: mild R. F/L  
Archive: Yes, as appropriate.  
Spoilers: The idea came to me after reading an interview with Braidwood (Frohike).  
Disclaimers: Chris Carter owns these adorable guys. I wish he'd loan them to me for a few hours. I could take VERY good care of them. Really! I have lots of interesting toys that they'd enjoy playing with.  
Foofs: All mine. (warning! Wasn't beta-read.)  
#############################

* * *

NIGHT TERRORS

In the silence of the night, the images come to me; the terror I can't hide from. It always catches me when I'm tired or lonely or discouraged or when the aches in my joints remind me that I'm 53 and my fast-retreating hair bothers me. When the little boy inside me looks around at the mirror and says "You're old. Your life is a waste." That's when the dream comes sliding through my sleeping mind like some sort of psychic predator, latching its fangs around my throat. A Class nighmare.

Welcome to hell, Mel, you incompetant son-of-a-bitch.

Usually the Dream begins with my death. This time it was different. This time it began with the view through a rifle scope with the crosshairs centered on Skinner. I struggle to warn him and then the scope slowly swings as the assassin focuses on me. Skinner and I are walking along a street and I'm talking urgently, waving an envelope. The assassin rechecks his rifle and once again my forehead is in the middle of his target scope.

I have become a nuiscance to him -- trespassing into his affairs, and snooping where I shouldn't be. Today he will kill me as dispassionately as he would squash a cockroach. He strokes the gunstock as he would stroke a lover, feeling an almost sexual rush at the power. My stomach lurches.

He takes his time to settle the rifle. Skinner and I walk past a tall tree and then we are standing on the street, facing one another, and I am pushing the envelope into his hand, oblivious to the man watching us from above.

He squeezes the trigger slowly and there's a sudden rush of glee as he watches the soft point bullet shatter my face and skull. Skinner stares in shock and horror and then darts for cover as people on the street start screaming. Within seconds the pavement is empty except for the pathetic sprawl of my body.

My killer packs the rifle away with quick efficiency and opens the door -- and the scene of my face shattering in a spray of bone and blood starts replaying in my sleep. And oh god, I can't stop it, can't make it end. Again and again I die. An endless Moebius loop of a tape and I'm locked forever in its grip.

"Here and now."

A soft whisper -- the words from Aldous Huxley's ISLAND.

"Here and now." I grope toward the voice and the scene shifts again. I am in darkness. The bed sheets are soggy with sweat. I think I'm awake. I think I may never sleep again.

"Here and now." He slips his arm over my shoulder, cradling me against his chest.

"Aldous Huxley?" I manage to croak.

"Not even close." Was that one of his rare chuckles I heard? "Sounded like a bad one this time. Thought I'd better come wake you."

"Yeah."

I feel his chin tuck over the top of my head; feel his body shape itself to mine. We are curled together like lovers in my nightmare-haunted room.

"I'm better now," I say, but the rasp in my voice says otherwise to someone who knows me well. He raises his head to look down at me. Strands of pale blonde hair stray across my shoulders.

"I'm here," he says and doesn't leave. I turn to look at him, studying his face in the dim light; the square, strong bones, sharp nose, thin lips that I once thought were cruel. It's a gentle face, if you look beyond the stereotypes.

"Was I ...?" The question sticks in my throat. Was I crying? Screaming? Do I sound like a weak whimpering fool?

"You were fighting something in your sleep. Kicking and growling." He smooths his palm against my face and I close my eyes, turning toward the warm comfort of his hand. He kisses the top of my head almost casually as he slips his other arm underneath me and I turn toward him, curling into the solid warmth of his body. He's got a chest you could park a truck on -- solid, heavy boned, not an ounce of fat, and he radiates heat like a stove. I press against him, yawning, feeling the cold fear of my death seeping away from my soul.

He strokes my back with those hands that are nearly half again the size of mine. An odd memory floats to the surface of my mind of something I read in a book, back in the days of my misspent youth, that a man's cock is proportional to the length of his hands. Big, gentle hands. I want to feel them touching my bare skin -- but I'd die before I admitted that to him. No point making myself look really stupid.

I can feel the slow heat of arousal tightening my nipples, sliding down my stomach and I tell myself I'm an old fool. There's 20 years difference in our ages, and I don't really know if either of us is bisexual. He just came here tonight to rescue a friend from the night terrors. I close my eyes and tuck my face against his chest. For just this one night, I don't want to be alone.

For just this one night, I drift toward sleep, curled in Ringo Langly's arms.

-end-

(Do not meddle in the affairs of jaguars, for you are small and tasty and we are armed with good barbeque sauce recipes.)

 

* * *

 

Monochromes  
BY: LaTigre (Lady Jaguar)  
Archived: 07/12/00

%#%#%#%#%#%#%#%#%#%#%#%#%%#%#%#%#%#%#%#  
TITLE: Monochromes  
BY: LaTigre (Lady Jaguar)  
  
DISTRIBUTION: Unusual Suspects, Basement (elsewhere by permission -- I'm easy) Email forwarding is OK.  
RATING: R for smutty thoughts  
SPOILERS: None. This is April 2000. We don't know much about the characters, so I extrapolate. I'll be ashamed of my bad guesses later.  
SUMMARY: Frohike daydreams about Langly, the morning after "Night Terrors"  
NOTA BENE: SpottyLady can't quit writing these! Aiee!  
DISCLAIMER: Chris Carter, 1013, and Fox own the X-Files, not me.  
BETA: It's a fish -- no, wait. That's the betta. Very pretty. I didn't do either.  
%#%#%#%#%#%#%#%#%#%#%#%#%%#%#%#%#%#%#%#

* * *

MONOCHROMES 

There is a strange moment between the dawn and the day when the city lights flick off and the town begins to wake. The light that spills through our heavy windows then is almost monochromatic -- black and white with a spectral blue tinge. I would have thought last night was simply a dream but for the solid form of Ringo Langly draped beside me on the bed.

I turn to study him, thinking how little I still know about him, even after all these years. The hypnotic chase of information and lies puts us in our own little personality boxes and we forget to see who stands beside us. And so I watch him sleeping as though I am seeing him for the first time, watching how the ghostly morning light traces his face and softens the dense shadows in the sculpted hollows of his eyes, noticing how different he looks without his glasses; without the usual intent expression on his face. A changeling in repose.

For a moment, briefly, he reminds me of the actor, Rutger Hauer. Langly shares that same straight-limbed style of movement of the Nordic breed; the efficiency of warriors of ages long dead. His pale gold hair looks almost white in this light. I lean forward to brush it with my fingertips, remembering the soft brush of it against my face in the night. My fingers hover over his forehead briefly, then slide away. I lean closer to him; close enough to feel his breath on my cheek, close to his mouth. My lips part slightly, and I wonder what it will be like to kiss another man.

He sighs suddenly and I pull back, afraid and ashamed as my common sense kicks in and takes over. I'm reading too much into things again. It's an old and bad habit of mine. He came to my bed last night out of kindness; nothing more. I don't really know if he wants anything more than this or if I want anything more -- but starting the negotiations by kissing a sleeping person isn't the way to handle such a delicate situation.

No fool like an old fool, they say. I roll over and swing my legs off the edge of the bed. Then Langly's hand, large and gentle, curls around my forearm and I freeze, not sure what to do now.

"Mornin'." His tone is affectionate. I wonder if he can hear the hammering of my heart.

I turn back toward him, smiling awkwardly. "Morning." His forefinger slides up and down my forearm. It could be simply a friendly gesture, but it's damnably sensuous in my present frame of mind. "Sleep well?" I ask, then curse myself for saying something so stupid sounding.

The finger strokes again. Up and down. I feel the old fires start to rise in me as I stare at his hand, at the finger sliding along my arm. I'm caught between hope and fear and not sure that I know what I want most. I've always thought of myself as heterosexual... and yet... and yet.....

...and yet, I want his hand to move down to my leg, to stroke along my inner thighs... to... to touch me. I swallow, stare at his hand.

It's Langly who breaks the spell. Releasing me suddenly, he yawns and stretches bonelessly and then rises from my bed, catching up his glasses. "I'll go fix coffee, then," he offers as he slips them on and the old Langly appears, suddenly, like a magic trick, formed out of lanky limbs and intense stare and dark rimmed glasses. With that, I ease into my old familiar role.

"Nah. Go check the server logs. I'll do coffee," I smile and reach for my own glasses. He turns and pads softly down the hall and I watch as he fades into the soft shadows of our hallway, pale against the dark warmth of the network room.

-end-

(Do not meddle in the affairs of jaguars, for you are small and tasty and we are armed with good barbeque sauce recipes.)

 

* * *

 

TITLE: Campaign  
BY: LaTigre (Lady Jaguar)  
Archived: 07/12/00

%#%#%#%#%#%#%#%#%#%#%#%#%%#%#%#%#%#%#%#  
TITLE: Campaign  
BY: LaTigre (Lady Jaguar)  
  
DISTRIBUTION: Unusual Suspects, Basement (elsewhere by permission -- I'm easy) Email forwarding is OK.  
RATING: NC-17 for consensual m/m sex (Plot? What Plot?)  
SPOILERS: None. This is May 2000. We don't know much about the characters, so I extrapolate. I'll be ashamed of my bad guesses later.  
SUMMARY: F/L - Langly accidentally gets Frohike stoned. A good time is had by all  
NOTA BENE: I can't believe I write this stuff. Dedicated to a certain 30-something. You know who you are.  
DISCLAIMER: Chris Carter, 1013, and Fox own the X-Files, not me.  
BETA: It's a fish -- no, wait. That's the betta. Very pretty. I didn't do either.  
%#%#%#%#%#%#%#%#%#%#%#%#%%#%#%#%#%#%#%#

* * *

CAMPAIGN

I love the city in the Vampire Hours; the time of day when no sensible person would be out prowling. The 3 am edge, when the gold glitter of street lights hides some of the aura of shabbiness; when you can see who's before you and who's behind you, if you know where to look. It's a mystic time of night, and I'm in a mystic mood, coming down from a good gaming session with close friends, a bit of heavy petting, and all the pizza I can swallow. Lord Manhammer, tasting life to its fullest.

Or a reasonable fascimile thereof.

I pass an old wino on the street, locked in his own fantasies. Oh yes, I know how the Suits see us -- failures at life, living on the edges, the Totally Weird on the way to oblivion. The Suits have their own dreams; a stifling death dream -- to buy out Bill Gates and spend the rest of their lives siting on the beach and jetting around the world until they die and end up in the cryofreezer. The old wino there has dreams of glory as wild as any of that. Me, I dream of the Unreal that can almost be made Real --at least in the frame of the game. I have power in the Fantasy, and that's good enough for this time and place.

Almost home. I slip a pair of Mel's old nightvision goggles on briefly. No, nobody in the shadows around the building. I unlock the door and take the stairs toward our apartment two at a time, still high on sex and dreams. I struggle to unlock the front door as quietly as I can. Mel and John usually crash around midnight at the latest and it's rude to wake them up when they're considerate enough to let me sleep in the mornings.

The reassuring purr of our servers greets me as I step into the almost- darkness of HQ. Mel looks up from his terminal, nods, and lowers his eyes to the screen. Gods below, what is he doing up at this hour?

I study him carefully, looking for clues in the way he sits and moves. He's almost motionless like a dragonfly suspended in amber and the slope of his shoulders looks awkward. After a minute, I realize that my body is unconsciously echoing his posture because slow bands of fire start knotting themselves along my upper back. He's upset about something; very upset. I amble over, pretending that nothing unusual is going on.

"You're up late," I observe.

"Writing the editorial."

It's a curious little dance that's going on here. I'm not really fooled by his comment and he knows I'm not, but I can see by the determined little brackets around his mouth that he's not going to talk about whatever's bothering him. Mel comes from a generational culture where blathering about inner needs was a sign that you needed to be put away somewhere and kept from sharp objects. The "warm-fuzzy" approach is definately the wrong scenario for the 50-somethings.

I eyeball the garbage can near him. No beer cans, so I go for the "just guys" option, and give him a half-smile. "Looks like you had a hard night. Why don't I get you a beer? Help you relax." Beer, the wonder drug of the guy generation.

"No. Thanks. " He turns back to the monitor, staring sightlessly. Melvin the Wonder Elf's shields are holding up well tonight. It's time for Plan B.

"Hey, man, you really look sort of wasted, y'know?" I say in my most Reasonable Tone. " We've got pre-press tomorrow. I can fix you some cocoa, spike it with catnip, help you get some rest." He hesitates briefly -- cocoa is one of his favorite treats -- and before he can refuse, I slope off to the kitchen calling, Be right back." Score one for Lord Manhammer.

As I wait for the water to heat, I fidget with my 20-sided die, flipping it and checking the score when I catch it. Eighteen -- good enough to conquer almost anything the DM threw against me. Unfortunately, Melvin The Wonder Elf has a Shield of Angst running full force and I think it would take a god-level hit to pull it down. I'm a little short on godlike powers at the moment. I do, however, have The Catnip of the Gods, the drug of choice of the Cautious Hippies -- according to Mel, that is. I checked with Cisi at the herbal shop and she confirmed the lore -- catnip affects humans, too.

Of course, most people don't bother to find this out -- and it DOES taste rather like old, dead weeds. I stuff a handful of leaves in a large cup and let the tea seep for a few minutes while I find the cocoa mix. When I'm finished with the brew, it's not pretty, but it should have Melvin the Wonder Elf purring like a kitten after fifteen minutes. I take a quick sip, pour off a cup for myself, add whipped cream, and pronounce it fit for human consumption. I do a quick handoff of the Potion of Purrfect Peace to him and head off to the bathroom for a shower. Lord Manhammer's beginning to smell more than a bit gamey. As I close the door, I hear a soft sigh from the room beyond -- not a contented sigh, but a sigh. It's a good sign. I reach for the soap, humming to myself.

It's good to be the DungeonMaster. By the time I've finished my shower and the catnip-spiked cocoa, I'm definately feeling no pain. I toss my clothes at the laundry basket, wrap the towel around my hips, and head for the main room to check on things. Mel's there, slumped bonelessly in his chair, empty cup on his chest, staring at the monitor's screen saver and wearing an odd sort of half-smile. I lift the mug from his fingers, and ruffle his hair.

"Ground Control to Major Tom."

"Eyyyyyyeeeesssss?" he replies, still staring owlishly at the monitor. I suddenly realize that I'm nearly a foot taller than he is and about 60 pounds heavier and I spiked the cocoa with enough catnip to give me a royal buzz. Mel drops like a fly when you feed him one capsule of Nyquil. He's definately inhabiting another plane of existance by now.

I slip a hand under his arm. "C'mon, big guy. Let's get you in bed."

"Okayyyy." His voice has dropped to a deep purr. His eyes look sleepy, and if I can just get him into bed, he should zonk out promptly. But turns out to be much easier said than done.

As I lever Mel out of his seat, my damp towel chooses that moment to start slithering floor-wards. I have a rather exciting six seconds where I'm trying to juggle a very stoned elf and a very determined towel, but my kung fu prevails and I manage to get all of us into Mel's bedroom without losing my dignity, my towel, or my grip on Melvin the Wonder Elf. Mission accomplished.

Then I more-or-less pour the Elfpuddle into bed and start unbuttoning his shirt, and that's where everything goes astray. My intention was to get him into bed to sleep. Mel's got other ideas.

As I get to the last button and reach for his belt, he grins wildly, wickedly, mischevously, and his hand suddenly darts out and yanks my towel away. I lunge for it and he yanks my upper arms with both hands and I find myself spawled across his body, stark naked.

I snatch at the towel, annoyed. "Mel -- give it back!"

"Why?" My skin suddenly informs my brain that the base of my neck is being rather expertly nibbled and nuzzled. "Give me one good reason," he purrs, voice muffled against my skin, "why I need to give you that towel."

I can't breathe. My braincells are yammering something about this being a bad idea because he's stoned out of his mind, but my body doesn't listen. My cock turns traitor, rearing hard and hot against the smooth cool skin of his belly.

"Just one reason," he repeats, his breath warm against my throat. One hand reaches down to clutch my ass, squeezing gently. I arch into him, aching to be touched. "Any reason at all, Ringo."

Reason flees. Is that me whispering, "Please...."?

His mouth is wide and his lips are soft as he moves up toward my ear. My fingers claw at the sheets as he finds a particularly sensitive spot on my neck. He chuckles softly. "You make the most interesting noises when I do that." I would answer, but my skin is hypersensitive now, and he's finding all the trigger areas along my neck and.... and... ohgodohgodohgodohgod -- where did he learn to do THAT to ears? I buck into the tight tunnel of his fist.

Just as my brain is about to shut down, he pauses and smiles up at me, stroking my face with his hand. The change is so unexpected that I'm caught off-guard again. I realize that he's watching me now, as though he's asking for permission to continue, perhaps a little afraid that he's gone too far. I trace his mouth with a finger and then bend lower, closing my eyes, and kiss him.

His touch is as delicate as a butterfly, his hands as deft as a model-maker's. Fingernails lightly rake my ribs, and my skin burns in their wake. I shove my leg between his, thrusting harder at him, wanting to feel more of his skin against mine. Wanting his hands. Wanting him. Wanting his mouth. That soft, gentle mouth. I swear I'll go insane.

His fist is around my cock, pumping hard. I'm fast losing control -- and that scares me. Lying over him like this, I suddenly feel how small he really is; how much of an illusion his size can be. Under these hands of mine, his bones are as slender as a sparrow's. Just as I start to pull back, he reaches for me, tangling his fingers in the hair at the nape of my neck, pulling me into a kiss.

I almost refuse --it seems wrong somehow. But for a brief moment there I see something odd in his expression; an almost haunted look. So I smile, close my eyes, and lower my mouth to his and let the sweet, stoned rush of the moment take over and let his hands and mouth guide me. I reach down, slide my hand along his, and circle both our cocks with my own hand. His thumb glides in broad smooth circles over my cocktip, smearing precum and I whimper and lunge toward him. I hear the soft, throaty whisper of his chuckle as I climax, spilling warm and sticky semen onto his belly.

"Yes," he whispers, and nips my earlobe. But he hasn't climaxed yet, and his cock's gone soft. I pull away, sliding my mouth down his chest, tasting myself against his skin, moving slowly, taking my time along his body until he arches his body and whimpers as I nibble gently in the hollow of his hips. His cock rises full and hard again and I slowly slide my mouth over it. His whimper becomes a moan; his hands clench in my hair, as I begin gently suckling the warm length.

Yes. I like the taste of him.

"Come for me," I whisper, and he bucks under me, thrusting harder and faster into my mouth, hips twisting almost spasmodically as he writhes under me. The tight, desperate whimper he makes when I lift my mouth briefly is enough to make my cock twitch again. But this climax is for him, not me. I open my mouth wide, take a deep breath, and take his whole length into my mouth. His hands scrabble at the bedsheets, clenching as I slowly swallow -- and then his hips slam upward and the warm salty taste of his semen fills my mouth.

Yes.

I swallow and then lift my head to smile down at him. He is blinking slowly at the ceiling, a look of stunned amazement on his face. "You... could raise the dead." he pants. An odd choice of words -- I certainly don't do zombies, even in my weirdest gaming modes. And then, a moment later, the words make sense. The stroke flicks, the websites, the hot chats -- they don't really work for him any longer.

He feels old.

He's afraid he's lost the ability, between the lack of partners and the blood pressure medication he takes. I remember that little factoid from the time I snooped on the drug databases to see what sort of effects the Atenolol had.

He doesn't really believe in himself any more.

I run my palm along the length of his penis, feeling it stir again. He arches his hips slightly, closing his eyes. There's nothing wrong with you, Wonder Elf, that some long, slow lovemaking couldn't cure. Nothing at all. You listened to far too many of the wrong people lately and you forgot to listen to how generous, gentle, wise, and caring you are; how sensual you are. Someone needs to believe in your magic again, so you can believe in yourself.

I run my hand down his chest and pull him into my arms. "Y'know, You're pretty amazing, yourself," I murmurr in his ear and then tug gently at his earlobe with my teeth. "Only next time, I'm not going to stop with a hot chat via modem, stud. I'm gonna drag you off that computer and we're gonna go somewhere comfy and get horizontal. I want to see what other sorts of wicked delights you know about."

"Mmmmmm..." That's almost a purr. His smile is sleepy, sated. I pull him closer, smooth his face with my hand, feel his breathing slow, watch as the Wonder Elf drops into much-needed sleep. I reach over to the lamp and turn it off with the tap of a finger.

Me, I can't sleep. The morning after is always the touchiest time in any relationship. I've seen too many guys with regrets after a sex romp and he's got more issues than the New York Times. I don't want this breaking apart our little family. So I watch the slow fading of the city lights and map out the possibilities, planning scenarios that all end with him curled up next to me, comfortably naked, smiling one of his too-rare smiles.

A soft thump and an off-key tenor hum wake me from a drowse -- the sounds of John getting ready for work. The consulting contracts keep us going, and thanks to the sub rosa recommendations of Skinner, we're doing quite well these days. Unfortunately, that also means that one or more of us has to get out of bed at an uncivilized hour to go forth and engage the Suits on the Battlefield of Bureaucracy. This week, that's the provenance of Saint John Byers, The Perfect Paladin. I'd give him the old Roman matriarchal sendoff about "with your shield or on it," but The Perfect Paladin has NO sense of humor at 6am.

He reaches for a high note and misses it completely. I wince. He has no sense of music at 6 am, either. I wish I could find a pillow to put over my head -- or Byers' head.

That's when Mel blinks awake, eyes wide and startled as his brain informs him that yes, we're in bed together, and yes, both of us are stark naked, and yes, sex WAS involved. I can feel his heartbeat motor up to triple time as the reality of the situation comes crashing in on him. I half wish I'd sneaked out of his bed after he fell asleep so he could pretend like I was some sort of economy sized bad blonde dream.

But here he is and here I am in the middle of his bed and I'm much too solid to be a hallucination. It's time to try out Plan A. I blink nearsightedly around the room.

"Whoa," I mumble, using out my best Totally Confused Look. "Man... we were SO stoned... " I stare at the ceiling. "Gotta go easier on the stuff next time." The absolution of being mind-bendingly blottoed gives him a chance to deny any issues he may have with last night.

However, Melvin The Wonder Elf and I aren't using the same script. His gaze sharpens. "Y'know, I didn't buy that 'who me?' routine the last six times you tried it on me, Mr. Innocence -- and I'm not going to buy it this time." and right about this time I realize I fell asleep somewhere between Plan A and Plan B and that there IS no Plan B -- or Plan C, either.

The anxiety must show in my face, because he gives me a quiet half-smile and wraps one length of my hair around his forefinger. "It's okay," he says quietly. "No regrets."

"None?"

"None." He curls against me, hand stroking my chest a little awkwardly. "None at all."

I pull him against my side and gently smooth my hands over his shoulders and chest until he relaxes again. Then I trace his jaw with a forefinger and lift his face to mine. "I'm glad there's no regrets. Because I meant what I said about not ending with a hot chat next time. I want more of you. I want more of *this.*" And I want him to believe what I'm saying, because I believe it all. I lean in, capturing his mouth in a kiss.

He trails one fingernail down my chest, down my stomach, down... and down... and I rise to meet him, pulling him on top of me. Somewhere, Byers is greeting the morning with another offkey serenade. Perhaps I'll plan a campaign to get the Perfect Paladin to sing a different sort of morning tune, but for now I'm content to let things ride on this new sort of path.

It has all the earmarks of the start of a beautiful relationship.

-end-

(Do not meddle in the affairs of jaguars, for you are small and tasty and we are armed with good barbeque sauce recipes.)

 

* * *

 

E is for Editor  
by La Tigre  
Archived 03/29/00

%#%#%#%#%#%#%#%#%#%#%#%#%%#%#%#%#%#%#%#  
TITLE: E is for Editor  
BY: LaTigre (Lady Jaguar)  
  
DISTRIBUTION: Unusual Suspects, Basement (elsewhere by permission -- I'm easy) Email forwarding is OK.  
RATING: PG (Plot? What Plot?)  
SPOILERS: None. This is May 2000. We don't know much about the characters, so I extrapolate. I'll be ashamed of my bad guesses later.  
SUMMARY: L/F evening after. Fro's POV. Followup to "Campaign"  
NOTA BENE: I can't believe I write this stuff. However, I'm dreadfully susceptable to flattery and WILL write this stuff at the drop of an email. Silly SpottyLady!  
DISCLAIMER: Chris Carter, 1013, and Fox own the X-Files, not me.  
BETA: It's a fish -- no, wait. That's the betta. Very pretty.  
##########################

* * *

Write what you know, they say. I know lots of things today that I didn't know yesterday; things that have changed my life and my concept of who and what I am. Things like "I had sex with another man."

Twice.

I started it.

I enjoyed it.

The "me" of twenty years ago would have run screaming from that concept. Insted, I sit here, sipping my last cup of coffee for the day, meditating about it as I type. Byers is working on the layout of the magazine tonight and Langly's still collecting URLs for the article on the Naval Nuclear Weapons Facility. I should be writing the editorial for this issue. Instead, I'm putting down in crisp electronic fonts the things I'm discovering about myself. Things that might be a little too scary to admit out loud.

Things like admitting it wasn't just sex. Like admitting I made love to Ringo Langly.

Love. I thought I'd sworn that baggage off forever. The mind can plan, I suppose, but the heart does as it pleases. Sometime over the past four or five years, I've developed a real love for both of these men who have wandered into my life like stray tomcats. Look what followed me home, ma. Can I keep them?

Ma would be horrified, actually, but I need to quit living with my mother's sensibilities and start living with mine. Fact: that lanky, fey blonde over there makes me forget there's 17 years difference in our ages. Fact: I can still feel the warm weight of his body on top of mine; the way we moved together, the way he tasted, the warmth of his skin. Fact: I want him again, right now. The thought makes me smile.

I glance over at him, and he's smiling at me; a slow and secret smile as though he knows what I'm thinking. On my monitor, a small message box suddenly starts winking at me and I click the icon to read the note. It's just one word: "Tonight."

I find myself grinning like an idiot. Byers gives me a peculiar glance and Langly tries out his "I'm innocent, officer" expression. I wonder how long it will last. I wonder how long it'll take Byers to figure out what's going on.

"Write what you know", they say. I know my life is changing and I stand in an uncertain current with possibilities stretched before me. For now, though, this is enough. I'll take the minutes as they come and welcome Langly to my bed when he's in the mood. Perhaps someday we'll bring Byers in, completing the circle, tightening the strong bonds between us all. I think he needs love and reassurance more than I do, though I don't think he's ready just yet to consider loving another man ... or men. Not like this, anyway.

I rattle the keyboard with a quick reply to the man who waits across the room: "Tonight." I could lose myself in the warmth of that smile -- but I turn back to the keyboard.

Treasures are always sweeter for a little anticipation.

-end-

(Do not meddle in the affairs of jaguars, for you are small and tasty and we are armed with good barbeque sauce recipes.)

 

* * *

 

TITLE: "B" is for "Bratboy"  
BY: LaTigre  
Archived: 07/12/00

%#%#%#%#%#%#%#%#%#%#%#%#%%#%#%#%#%#%#%#  
TITLE: "B" is for "Bratboy"  
BY: LaTigre  
  
DISTRIBUTION: Unusual Suspects, Basement (elsewhere by permission -- I'm easy) Email forwarding is OK.  
RATING: R (Plot? What Plot?)  
SPOILERS: None. This is May 2000. We don't know much about the characters, so I extrapolate. I'll be ashamed of my bad guesses later.  
SUMMARY: L/F Langly does laundry. Frohike may not survive the experience.  
NOTA BENE: I can't believe I write this stuff. This is my favorite "Strange Spots" story (so far).  
DISCLAIMER: Chris Carter, 1013, and Fox own the Gunmen, not me and would be absolutly aghast at this stuff.  
BETA: Still a fish. Or is that "betta"?  
################################# 

* * *

"Discrete" is NOT Ringo Langly's middle name. "Genius", almost certainly is, as is "Geek," and even, occastionally, "Granola." But his ancestors probably lost the genes for discretion when the shy and retiring ones were pushed out of the trees by the rest of his ancestors and got eaten by something with large fangs and a nasty attitude. And when Ringo's on his worst "brat-mode" behavior, common sense goes out the window along with discretion.

Byers, on the other hand, has a facade that you couldn't crack with a tactical nuclear strike. I occasionally wish I could give Byers a bit more of Ringo's cheerfulness and spontaniety and Ringo a bit more...

Maybe not. Then he wouldn't be Ringo any more. And dammit, he's fun -- every bratty inch of him -- even on the days when I'd like nothing better than to strangle him with his own hair.

Like today. He's prancing around in Those Shorts, doing laundry. It's enough to try the patience of an angel, and I ain't no angel, even on my best day.

Those Shorts look like they were rescued from a toxic landfill --tatty cut-offs with the back pockets ripped off and the seat frayed just enough so that skin occasionally shows through. And they're short. Really short.

He started by cutting the legs off a worn pair of jeans -- at crotch level. Then I watched him sit on the couch and pull threads from the bottom until he had this nice one inch fringe at the bottom of the things. The only way you could wear those shorts on the streets and NOT get arrested is if you wore a tee shirt that was six sizes too large or underwear that was three sizes too small -- and Bratboy isn't wearing any underwear. Or shirt. So as he prances around the place, I get the most infernally tantalizing peep show; a brief glimpse of the head of his cock, a brief flash of his balls as he kneels.

I keep telling myself I need to answer my email, but all I've done so far this morning is stare at that blue-clad butt, waiting for those flashes of warm pink skin.

He smiles at me and then bends to pick up his pile of clothing from the floor, legs spread wide, back toward me, and my heart almost stops. The way those long, muscled legs sweep upward to that tight ass is enough to give a statue a hard-on. That glimpse of his balls and the underside of his cock dangling out of his shorts puts my system into hormonal overload. I'm going to have a coronary in a few minutes and Ringo Langly will have been the death of me.

He marches past, arms full of shirts, and gives me his cheeziest grin. Before I can react, he's got the front door open and is padding downstairs to the laundry room.

I cancel my scheduled heart attack as I lunge for the door in a panic. If he meets any of the tenants on the stairs, he'll get arrested and then I'll have to explain Ringo Langly and Those Shorts to the rest of the world -- and to Byers. I can hear him greet someone on the stairs a floor below, and wait for the screams of horror and outrage. There's a polite murmur of voices and the footsteps retreat. I collapse limply on the stairs, trying to decide if I want to kill Ringo first and then have the heart attack or indulge myself in a nice coronary panic and kill Ringo afterwards.

The silence below is unnerving. Has he explained away Those Shorts or did he hit our neighbors with a Jedi Mind-Whammy so that they don't notice that he's wandering around indecently clad? I go back into our apartments and head for the coffee. This is all too much for my nerves.

After about 10 minutes, I see him on the spycams, trotting up the stairs, dish towel tucked into the front waistband of Those Shorts. He must have slipped it on the second he was out of camera range. That explains the lack of cops in the building.

He looks up at the camera, grins, and slowly... so slowly... lets the towel drop. Those Shorts are riding low on his hips. He pauses to pick something off the sole of his foot, and I see the warm pink mounds of his testicles dipping below the shorts.

I'm so horny it hurts.

Then he finishes the approach to the door by pausing -- no, posing --to bend over the railing and look downstairs. The camera and I ogle his butt. The zipper of my fly won't stand much more of this kind of abuse. Then he bends over just a bit farther -- and ohgods, the fabric of the jeans rips slightly.

Those Shorts should be classified as lethal weapons.

He pads in through the door like a lordling of the Sidhe, blonde and graceful with a fey elegance that makes it seem as though he might be a halucination and I fall in love again. He poses beside me, hands shoved into Those Shorts, tugging them down low across his hips. I reach out and hook a finger into the waistband, tug at the zipper. "Those look like they chafe," I say in my most solicitous tone.

His mouth captures mine, his hands cup my face, my hands slide the jeans off those slim, warm hips. His legs slide against my pants as he steps free of them and ohgod, his hands are so gentle against my body and I need him more than I've needed anyone else in a very long time.

Yes, I'm gonna burn Those Shorts one of these days... but maybe not this week. I've got my hands full with other things right now.

-end-

(Do not meddle in the affairs of jaguars, for you are small and tasty and we are armed with good barbeque sauce recipes.)


End file.
